Opus
by Stradivari
Summary: A selection of drabbles mostly agnst mostly open ended. Possible TLC spoilers.
1. Opus

**O P U S**

:i:

Blue sky. He always wondered.

The tea, the colour of her irises. He wondered about that too.

Brown; the colour of the door. It was dark, with the quality of chocolate, though not as sweet. Polished, like a well known symphony. Ragged, from the number of times it had been slammed shut against its frame. Brown; but not of her. Of poetry; but not of her. He wondered if she cared.

She wondered.

And all this time, the tea grew cold. The taste, however, did not.

Perhaps if he were to be poor- then perhaps more value he would hold to him. It was a thought that danced when he thought no one watched, sang when the voices outside stopped their _a capella._

He was solemn when he said it, speaking as if the words were wisdom, each on its own yet never together.

Two kinds of people in the world. The wealthy and the poor-

_Blue sky. He always wondered._

-And it never changed.

**:i:**

**First drabble 164 words. Please review!**


	2. K570

**K570**

**:i:**

The notes were clear enough. It was to a degree where the music critics packed and left the auditorium with their dark glances and mutterings of perfection. Renamed: hypocrites.

Then she packed and left herself, leaving the stage empty save the lights and the piano.

Then they turned off the lights and the piano was covered, pushed into the darkened corner near the wings. Velvet against velvet, both soft and both black. Then the door shuts, and the music disappears into the rafters. The birds outside unfurled their wings, as if they too, were leaving.

Perfection had never been embraced.

And neither has he.

**:i:**

**A/N: Prompt: Mozart, from Sonata in B flat K570 Mvt. 2 & 3 from my recital. Probably TLC Minerva & Arty.**


	3. Con Moto

_**Con**_

**M O T O**

**:i:**

Of course, it wasn't her place to make such decisions.

It wasn't her place to do the things she did.

Nor was it her place to stand there and pretend _it_ wasn't really there, that _it _would somehow, miraculously disappear back home. Or he would lose interest. Perhaps if she held an optimistic view, the world would right itself again. Yet that was the reason why it tilted in the first place. All _its _fault.

She was being childish- she knew it. It didn't stop her, though.

_Damn. He never looked at her like that._

Yet it wasn't her place to judge.

She closed the door, hearing the lock click. It shut off inaudible screams.

Outside, the rhododendrons littered the ground.

She didn't have a place anywhere.

**:i:**

**Author's Note: 127 words. Juliet PoV- this is an idea I'll be playing with later, on a longer scale. Title- piece by Schumann that I can't get out of my head. Rather appropriate, I though…but not, as well. --**


	4. Berlioz

**B E R L I O Z**

**:i:**

A petal fell, a pale shade of stolen yellow from the sun. It fell, from a daisy-like flower; wild with the wind that swept along the coast. The grass was coarse beneath his eyes, the green splendor of trees unheard of as yet, at the brim where rock met sand and rock again until the waves worn them away.

The colours were drawn to paint, wet and splashed across the heavens. Dawn- where he had gone.

He blinked once. And the petal disappeared.

Turning to the door, he opened it to look on the other side, barely five meters from that curtained scene. The lights came back on, and they turned to leave, one by one. Some came back. Some did not. Most was ignorant; others dwelled on the matter like a wisp of nightmare, not to be feared, yet not to be sought after like the remnants of a dream either.

Across the foam edged beach and the sea, lay a sky which was blue.

He looked to that sky.

And the sky would keep its promise.

**:i:**

**Author's Note: I actually thought of this drabble in the middle of the night, when I didn't have the energy to write it down. The ending was much better that time…-- Lesson learnt. Butler PoV.**


	5. Reflections in the Water

**Reflections**

_In the_

**W A T E R**

**:i:**

And out of the pen-tip, it came; like a dawn not yet arrived, light- the soul fine wine, golden to the silver touch of fingertips.

It gripped its slender body, at times caressing, love, like the kisses under cherry blossoms; skeletons already ashes and traveling grey, like a half completed sketch. Thousands of angels along the wind. They had no wings- only eyes, black and small, and invisible as they scattered like Lucifer's seeds upon the earth of the heart.

And at others, it ravaged, torn flesh and torn screams, whose voice and words were rearranged by the slender, slender tip, a dancer trailing the red nocturne in her wake. More elegant than Chopin. At least, that's what she thought.

And the echoes came, changed from what they first were changed, no in essence, yet to the very heart, the very soul. If they had a soul. If they would let her.

And out of the pen-tip, it came.

My hands, which I no longer recognize.

**:i:**

**Author's Note: I felt a bit better after writing this. _Time-2:39minutes_. Its more my own, than AF, but feel free to piece it with any character. :D**

**CC Appreciated as usual. Please review.**


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